Devil's Challenge
by i.got.ur.back
Summary: Ed and his war buddies are taken hostage after they board an enemy train on accident. Shackles line their feet and bullets rain in showers over their heads. Can they beet the Devil's Challenge or will they suffer in his rage. T for violence and cursing.


I pear around me at all the terrified faces. Some I recognize, some are complete strangers. We all have hand cuffs on our wrists and ankles though there is no way to get out of the impenetrable train cart anyway. Not without alchemy which they have so happily blocked from all of us. The pale light that filters through the small window above is is about the only air source we have. Its hot, humid, uncomfortable, and all over a shitty situation seeing how we have no idea were we are going. The man next to me seems to be getting sick and I keep hearing him gag but nothing comes. Dry heaving and it sounds absolutely disgusting. He must have been sent to the field were most of the troops were killed off by gas. Besides death, this was another side affect. Of course if there is the slightest thing in your stomach it can come back upstream.

A bloody fluid and foam that resembles moldy whip cream comes up and onto the man that sits on the floor under his bunk. The smell of disease, blood, dirt, and the now added vial now accompany us to our unknown destination. War is truly a terrible thing.

I look around at all the faces and see one that I know from training. Jones. Rebbecca Jones is sitting up under one of the wall bunks against the wall fiddling with her rifle. She looks like a actor compared to how the rest of us look. She's cool and calm unlike most of the guys who are either shaking in fear or vomiting. The sound of nearby screaming erupts us all into an awakened state and we all tense as it continues. It must be in the next car over because its muffled and distorted. A short gun shot and it stops. It was probably out of mercy that they killed him.

We are all to tired to speak and to cramped to sleep even though some are so exhausted they fall asleep sitting up or standing. I hold back the urge to go and sit by Castor who looks terrified to the point of losing his sanity. Poor kid is younger than I am.

The train rickets to a stop and we hear all kinds of ruckus outside. Car alarms, glass shattering, screaming, gun shots, and bombs blowing people to bits. Its all a part of the process of war. The intior side of our car squeals to a open position so fast that the people leaning on it almost fall out. Some Commander awaits us outside to tell us where to go get ourselves killed. He looks mad as fire as he looks over us. Wounded, tired, out of courage to go on. We look all over pathetic and he hates it. I take a look at his uniform and it isn't one of our standing officers. Most have brought him up as a back up or something. By the way he looks, hes been though hell to. Dirty, unhappy, just like the rest of the god damn world.

He orders for our weapons to be taken. Something is immediately wrong as soon as the order comes out his mouth, but we have to comply or get shot which he did to the boy at the end of the row for not giving his rifle away. We stand in formation as our rifles are stacked in a pile about fifty yards away from us. Some collapsed on the ground out of pure exhaustion and had to beg to not be shot and to our horror they were anyway. After that no one else complained, sat down, or anything but stand there. Six people have been killed. We don't need to be counting anymore for such stupid reasons. An army of uniform men surround our small company. They look us over, and over waiting for someone else to fall. But no one does. Which seems to anger them.

The Commander tells us that the little "demonstration" was just to get the weaklings out. That they wouldn't last anyway out here. There were no hospitals around here he says. It wasn't like the weaklings would make it to the hospital anyway. To explain the restraints we had on us was that he doesn't want any post traumatic stress to overcome us and make us go on a random killing spree, thus explaining the reason we had no weapons. It was all a cover up and I know it. A lie to make us prisoners. And there was nothing we could do about it.

The small army they had walked our group to a holding compartment so they could observe us more. See it we were fit to fight. But fight who is what I want to know. I haven't seen an red coat around here. Not one. And that is who we were supposed to be fighting and were fighting until now.

It is an old prison were they keep us seeing how their camp was blown to bits. How ironic they keep us here in this cell. They lock the doors and every thing. We huddle in a circle and look for clues in what the guards are saying, but none of us can make up a good enough excuse for what they are doing. We are like prisoners of war, but to our own country.

Our communication has been cut off to Central Command. Of course it has. Because everything else in this hell hole is screwed up, why not that?

Castor sits in the corner rocking with his knees against his chest. Ever so often he will mumble something to himself but otherwise he is silent.

Our supposed Commander stalks up to us in a civilian outfit. He stares into our cell and mumbles something I am to tired to hear.

"Alright maggots. Seems we have the upper hand. The gas, bombs, and machine guns have taken out most of the troops where you were picked up from. The battlefield is littered with blue coats and red blood."

"How does that make us have the upper hand?" I blurt out angrily.

"I said we. Not you. You see." He pulls his mess of hair back to show a earphone. He pulls his sleeve up to show us a tattoo of the people we are fighting. He is one of them and we are now at his mercy.

Silence. If a drip of water were to fall we could hear it.

"You are entertainment." What the hell does that mean?

"We aren't some kind of television set! This isn't a reality show!" Someone blurts out, but I am to deep in thought to listen to the complaints and disagreements. Entertainment? Torture us and record it for their pleasure while they sit back and laugh at our pain. Plus, they can keep us hostage to. I'd rather be dead.

I see the blur of a red light outside of the cell and I see the outline of a box. They are recording us now. This just registers in my mind as a bullet enters Castor's head.


End file.
